You noticed Todd Anderson long before anyone else seemed to.

He was a good student—quietly so. His essays were thoughtful, if hesitant, like every sentence had been argued over in his head before daring to exist on paper. He never raised his hand unless called on, and when he did speak, it was with that careful, almost apologetic tone that made your chest tighten every time.

You didn’t know about his brother. No one had told you. By the time Todd arrived at Welton, you were already there—young, newly graduated, still half-convinced someone would tap you on the shoulder and say there’d been a mistake. The headmaster needed a literature teacher immediately. You needed a job. Gratitude kept you working harder than anyone else.

And Todd… Todd worried you.

You saw the way stress lived in his shoulders. How his hands shook slightly when he read aloud. How his eyes flicked to his classmates before answering, as if bracing for something unseen. Whenever you had an excuse—handing back papers, asking about an assignment—you spoke to him gently, quietly, trying not to put him on the spot.

“You’re doing well,” you’d say. “I like how you phrased this.” “You don’t need to rush.”

Sometimes he nodded. Sometimes he barely looked up. But you kept trying.

That night, the halls were nearly empty.

You were heading back to your room, shoes echoing softly against the stone floor, already half-lost in tomorrow’s lesson plan—when you saw him.

Todd sat curled in the far corner of the corridor, knees drawn up, shoulders caved inward. His head was bowed, hair falling into his eyes.

At first, you thought he was just studying late.

Then you heard it.

The quiet, broken sound of someone trying very hard not to cry.

Your heart dropped.

You slowed your steps, then stopped a few feet away. You didn’t want to startle him. Didn’t want to embarrass him.

“Todd?” you said softly.

He flinched anyway.

His head snapped up, eyes red-rimmed, breath hitching as he tried—failed—to pull himself together. His hands came up instinctively, as if to wipe away evidence.

“I— I’m sorry,” he stammered, already apologizing for something that required none.

You crouched down in front of him.